


Undeniable Chemistry

by rabidchild67



Series: Undeniable Chemistry [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys try to figure out what to do next. Picks up the morning after "Meeting Like This" and things are a little... awkward</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undeniable Chemistry

Clinton Jones stood by the door to the conference room next to Peter’s office, saw Diana approaching from the other hallway and gestured for her to precede him into the room.

“You’re such a gentleman,” she said with a smile and a toss of her head and found a seat. It was time for the weekly status meeting, and most of the team was already assembled. Clinton took a seat and propped open his laptop, listening to a story Blake was telling about his youngest brother’s college antics.

“OK, people, let’s get started,” Peter said, breezing into the room with a stack of files and his own laptop, which he hooked up to the projection system. He closed the door and fiddled around with his mouse, trying to find a document.

“Where’s Neal?” Jones asked, hoping he sounded casual. In fact, he was nervous as hell. The events of the prior evening were still vivid in his mind, and he was both eager and nervous at the thought of seeing Neal again. All morning, he looked up expectantly whenever the elevator opened, only to be disappointed. Here it was, 9:00, and there was still no sign of him.

“Doctor’s appointment or something,” Peter said distractedly, staring at his computer screen, and Jones sat back in his seat.

“Ah,” Peter said as he at last found what he was looking for and began the meeting.

Two hours later, they all emerged, and Jones saw Neal sitting at his desk – he had arrived while they were all in the conference room. As he got to the bottom of the stairs, Clinton noticed a pair of crutches leaning against Neal’s desk, and he was sitting with his left leg held straight along the side of his desk, a white knee brace fastened around it, a stark contrast to his dark blue suit.

Clinton stopped at his desk and called out to him. “You OK, Neal?”

Neal looked up at him and shook his head ruefully. “Zigged when I should have zagged yesterday in that tussle with Van Horn,” Neal said. 

Clinton briefly wondered how he could be so casual, then realized he knew exactly why – he was a very good con man, after all. He dropped his laptop and files off on his own desk and moved over to Neal’s, leaned his hip against it.

“That old ACL injury you mentioned last night?” he said, his voice low.

“Yeah,” Neal replied. “Doctor thinks it might be a partial tear, but won’t know for sure until I can get an MRI, which is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

Clinton cast his eyes around the department; most of the team were still milling around near the conference room. He leaned forward slightly and whispered, “It wasn’t anything I – _we_ – did last night, was it?”

Neal broke into a winning smile. “No. Well, I’m sure walking fifteen blocks on it wasn’t the smartest thing, but no,” he said quietly. He leaned forward and whispered, “You were very gentle with me,” sat back and winked. 

Clinton could feel the color rising in his cheeks. “Oh, OK.” He turned to go back to his desk.

“Clinton?”

“Yeah?”

“I had a really nice time last night. A _really_ nice time.”

It was Clinton’s turn to smile. “I did too. Yeah.” He nodded awkwardly and went back to his desk, busying himself with his files and computer. After a minute, he looked back over at Neal and saw that he was engrossed by something on his computer, taking notes. Coloring again, he shook his head and got to work on the new case Peter had just assigned to him, memories of Neal’s soft, dark hair, gentle kisses and dusky pink nipples decidedly _not_ distracting him in the least. 

\----

Neal hobbled back from the men’s room slowly, still trying to get the hang of the crutches. When he got to his desk, he found a brown paper bag in the middle of it. Setting the crutches aside, he opened it to find a sandwich – turkey on multigrain with avocado, tomato and Muenster, his favorite, and a bottle of unsweetened green tea. 

“Hey, Tiny Tim, you want to grab lunch with me and El?” Peter said, stopping in front of his desk. 

Neal gave him a dirty look and pointed at the bag. “Got it covered.”

“Oh, OK. See ya.” 

Neal sat down and glanced over at Jones, who was just tucking into a chef’s salad. He caught Clinton’s eye and smiled. “Thanks,” he mouthed to him, and popped open the bottle of tea.

\----  
Two days later, Jones kept checking his watch all morning while he was trying to digest the latest case file. The case Peter had assigned him was his first solo investigation – a copy of Nicolaus Copernicus’ _De revolutionibus orbium coelestium_ that was up for auction at Weatherby’s had been stolen before it could be authenticated, and the seller was making a lot of noise about it. After the incident with Keller and the Franklin bottle, Peter had felt he owed the famous auction house a favor, and so had taken on the investigation and pawned it off on Jones. It was scrub work, probably, but it was Jones’ first solo, and he knew he ought to be excited to begin.

Only he also knew that Neal’s MRI was scheduled for 8:30, and he hadn’t arrived at the office yet, and it was getting close to noon. 

“Get it together, C.J.,” he muttered, shaking his head. He’d been known to fall too fast too soon in the past, and he wasn’t about to do it here and now. The night with Neal had been a good time – scratch that, a _great_ time – but reality would have to prevail and he would just have to put it all out of his head. An office romance was a bad idea, one with a CI an even worse, career-ending one.

He heard a _DING_ as the elevator arrived and he glanced up. No one got off for several seconds, and he was about to get back to work when he saw the rubber tip of a crutch stick out to stop the doors before they closed again. They bounced back open and soon Neal emerged, looking rumpled, sweaty and exhausted. He hobbled over to the double doors and looked up at them with an almost hopeless expression on his face.

Jones got to his feet and rushed over, opening the door for him. “You OK, man?”

Neal rolled his eyes. “I wish I could lie and say yes, but I’ve had the worst morning ever. I don’t know how disabled people get around in this city, I really don’t. Have you ever tried to catch a cab on crutches?”

“No.” Clinton stepped aside as Neal moved slowly through the doors and towards his desk.

Neal leaned the crutches against his desk to remove his suit jacket, and watched with no surprise as they slid to the floor with a clatter. When he looked at Jones, he had such a pitiful expression on his face that Jones couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Clinton took him by the elbow, secured his chair with his foot so it wouldn’t roll away, and helped Neal ease into his seat. Clinton couldn’t help but notice the scent that came off Neal – a heady mixture of sweat and aftershave and hair products that made him want to do naughty things. 

He cleared his throat and reminded himself to focus. “Can I get you anything? Some water? Coffee?”

“Water, thank you.”

Clinton retrieved a bottle from the office fridge and leaned on Neal’s desk as he drained half of it with one swig. “How did the MRI go?”

“The technician guy didn’t think it looked like a tear, but I’ll have to wait to hear from my doctor.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Neal shrugged. “I’ll still probably have to wear this thing for another couple weeks anyway,” he said ruefully, indicating the brace. “It’s doing nothing for the lines of this suit, let me tell you.”

“I suppose it’s not.”

Neal put the water bottle down and took a deep breath. “OK, so, sorry for being such a whiner. What are we up to today? More scintillating mortgage frauds? Or perhaps a good, old fashioned embezzlement?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

Clinton glanced back at his desk, then back at Neal. “I’ve got something – involves a historic manuscript. Interested?”

“Is the Pope Catholic? Spill.”

Clinton gave him the bullets on his case, Neal’s eyebrows rising with each detail. “Peter said I could use whatever resources I needed,” he said as he finished.

“It’s funny you should say that, because I’m a bit of a hobbyist when it comes to 16th century German printing techniques and inks.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do. Did you mention the thing hadn’t been authenticated?”

“There are only photos and an old analysis from the 1960’s. But a fat lot of good that’ll do us – we’ve got to find the thing.”

“Let me take a look at the files.”

“I’ll set everything up in the conference room.”

Neal glanced ruefully at the steps leading to the upper level of their floor.

“The other conference room,” Clinton amended, gesturing over his shoulder down the hall to the little-used, tiny and windowless secondary conference room.

“I’ll meet you down there.”

\----

Neal moved down the long hallway on his crutches, but the going was slow. He had his laptop slung in a bag over his shoulder, but it was throwing his balance off and kept swinging forward and threatening to fall. He paused to lengthen the thing’s strap so he could sling it across his chest when Clinton came up behind him. 

“Here, let me take that,” he said, putting the banker’s box of files he carried down and taking the bag from Neal. He plopped it on top of the box, picked it back up and walked on to the conference room. He stood at its entrance, holding the door open and waiting for Neal. 

“Aw, thanks carrying my books for me, Agent Jones,” Neal said, stopping in front of him. He couldn’t resist being flirty with him – Clinton had been bringing him coffee and lunch for the last couple of days, and Neal found it endearing.

Clinton’s ears turned several shades of dark pink as Neal made his way to a chair and sat down. They unpacked the files and got to work, Neal taking notes and asking all the right questions, Clinton hooking up their PCs to the room’s projection equipment so they could share their research as they went. 

After an hour, a knock in the doorway signaled the arrival of the lunch that Jones had thought to order for them. 

Neal gratefully accepted the diet soda Jones handed him, as well as the spinach salad with grilled shrimp he’d ordered him – another of his go-to lunch choices. He was flattered that Clinton had not only taken the time to look out for him the last couple of days – bringing him coffee and water so he wouldn’t have to get up too many times – he also seemed to remember his favorite lunch orders. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, or even if he wanted to make anything of it at all. Not yet. But it was kind of him, and thoughtful, and it made Neal happy that he had done something to reciprocate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white envelope. He slid it across the table.

“What’s this?” Clinton asked, looking up from his sandwich.

“Yankees tickets,” Neal answered.

Clinton took up the envelope and looked inside. “Against Boston? Box seats? Thanks!”

“Well, I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve been doing for me this week. It hasn’t gone unnoticed, you know? Just…thanks,” he picked up his plastic fork and poked at his salad.

“I did what anyone would have,” Jones pointed out.

Neal nodded, but he knew when someone was going out of their way, and he thought Jones knew it too. “I know, but, well…anyway,” he finished lamely.

They ate in silence, but after a few minutes, Neal was aware that Clinton was looking at him. “Did you want to go with me to the game?” Clinton asked.

“You mean, like a date?” 

“Well, no. Or…maybe? If you want?”

Neal noticed how the other man seemed to flinch inwardly at his own awkwardness, and felt much the same. He wanted it – boy, did he want to go on a date with Agent Clinton Jones. But life was way too complicated for him as it was, and getting into another relationship of any sort so soon after Sara was maybe one of the biggest mistakes he could think of. 

“Oh, I want,” Neal said, his voice almost shaking. “And I know this didn’t exactly stop us the other night, but it’s still a bad idea. We work together, after all.”

“You’re right.”

“And if anyone found out…well, it can’t end well.”

Clinton nodded emphatically. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I guess the other night was just…”

“A one-time thing,” Neal said wistfully, and poked at his salad some more. “A very hot, one-time thing.”

“Yeah.”

Neal wished it didn’t feel like he was giving something up, something he needed.

\----

A rumbling in Jones’ belly told him they should think about stopping. “Was that me?” he said.

“What time is it?” Neal asked, looking up from the research book he was currently perusing. 

“It’s after 7:00.”

“Time sure flies.”

 _When you’re having fun,_ Jones’ brain finished the thought, and he realized he had been enjoying himself the last several hours, working the case with Neal. They made a good team, Jones thought, though he figured Neal would team well with anyone. His brain was capable of tremendous leaps of insight, and of course his experience with all things criminal didn’t impede his ability to think outside the box.

“I’d ask you if you wanted to grab a bite to eat, but that got us into trouble last time.”

“Well, I wouldn’t qualify it as trouble,” Neal pointed out.

“I was referring to your knee,” Jones said, and hoped it didn’t seem like he was flirting with his last comment. When Neal went on without flirting back, he was surprised to feel disappointed. 

“Oh, of course. I should get home. Can’t wait to get this brace off. It’s more annoying than the tracker.” He began gathering up the pile of books and papers he’d been working through.

They organized all their files and packed up their PCs, leaving the room as neat as they could until the next morning when they’d pick it all back up again. Before long, they were standing on the plaza in front of the federal building, and Clinton offered to flag down a cab for Neal. 

They made their way to the street, where the rush hour had thankfully died down enough that taxis were in abundance. Jones flagged one down easily – it turned out to be a minivan – and opened the side door for Neal. Neal crawled into a seat and Jones fed the crutches in after him.

“You know, we could split this – you’re on my way home,” Neal offered.

Clinton didn’t enjoy the thought of taking the subway, so it was easy to agree. Not wanting to disturb Neal, who’d settled in the near seat, he walked around to the other side of the vehicle and climbed inside. As he settled himself, he noticed that Neal was fussing with the crutches and the other door was still open. When Neal straightened, Clinton reached across him and pulled it shut. 

Neal stiffened, and Clinton thrilled just a bit to feel his breath on the back of his neck - soft, like a whisper. Clinton pulled away, sat up straight and looked at Neal, who looked right back, their eyes locked together. Clinton’s mouth was suddenly dry, so he licked his lips reflexively. Neal’s eyes were drawn to the movement as his tongue flicked out.

“Where to, gents?” the cabbie asked, and the tension was broken. 

Clinton gave him the addresses and both passengers spent the ride uptown with eyes facing front, watching the city rushing towards them.

\----

The next morning, Neal was already set up in the tiny, windowless conference room when Jones arrived, poking around on the computer, and working through a hunch. The agent wordlessly deposited a large soy latte with one Splenda at Neal’s elbow and sat himself down across the table. Neal took a sip of the coffee without comment, but inwardly appreciated the thoughtfulness.

They worked in silence for about 30 minutes when Neal spoke up. “I think I found something.” He pushed a button on his pc and his screen transferred to the room’s display system. “Remember how you said you thought you’d heard about a similar case before? I was looking into rare book auctions for the last five years, and another copy of _De revolutionibus orbium coelestium_ came up for auction at Christie’s in Hong Kong in ’09, but it was never sold. See – here’s the catalog, and here’s the list of sold items. It’s not there. What if the book’s the scam?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, how much do you think something like that would sell for – it’s a Johannes Petreius edition, the first printing.”

“A million?”

“More like two or three. And the reserve is probably at least half that. So, if it’s at the auction house for authentication and it goes missing…”

“The auction house will be on the hook to reimburse the seller.”

Neal nodded. “And either the auction house pays the seller off not to make a stink, or their insurance company does. Either way, the seller walks away with a fat check, and he’s probably still got the manuscript – whether it’s authentic or not. We need to look into the seller – have you talked to him yet?”

“He hasn’t returned my calls.”

Neal spread his hands in a voila gesture and sat back in his chair with a wide smile on his face. Jones rose and clapped him on the shoulder. “We should verify a few things, but that’s a real break, Neal. I’m going to go tell Peter – we can present this to him together.”

Two hours later, Peter arrived in their little room as Neal and Clinton were looking into the background and finances of the seller. They’d already found two likely aliases and were looking for connections to others who might have helped with the scam, including a few shady book dealers with whom Neal was familiar.

“How come we’re all the way down here?” Peter asked, looking around the tiny space and frowning.

“Well, Neal can’t exactly climb those stairs up to your office these days, boss,” Jones said.

“Yeah, how’s that up to code anyway? I always wondered,” Neal added. “What if we had a disabled person on staff?”

“They don’t pay me to think about those things,” Peter said. “What’s up with the case?”

Neal and Jones laid it out for him, each of them supporting the other with facts and data. Peter absorbed the information, asking all the right questions for which they had all the right answers. At the end of it, he sat back, arms resting on the chair’s sides, and regarded them each critically. The silence stretched on for a full minute, during which Neal and Clinton traded nervous glances. 

“Looks good,” Peter finally pronounced, getting up. “Keep doing what you’re doing - if this is a conspiracy, we want to know all the players. Draw up the appropriate warrants whenever you’re ready. Great job, both of you.”

“Thanks, Peter,” they both said in unison, beaming.

“You two have done well on this. I’m not surprised. Keep up the good work.” Peter clapped them each on the back and left the room.

“We do good work,” Neal said with a grin after he was gone.

“We kind of do,” Jones agreed. “But we’re not done yet – still a lot more leads to run down, and the paperwork – you never get stuck with the paperwork with Peter, do you?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re on my team now – everyone gets stuck with the paperwork.” 

“We’re a team now?”

“Jones and Caffrey.”

“Caffrey and Jones.”

“Undeniable chemistry,” Jones said, moving his chair closer. 

Neal watched him carefully. “Undeniable.”

“You know that whole ‘we’re co-workers’ jazz?” 

Neal swallowed. “Yes?”

“How bought into that are you?”

“I could be swayed,” Neal said lightly, moving his own chair closer. His left leg, which he was forced to keep straightened, touched Clinton’s knee.

“You know, it’s Friday, and there’s this new sushi place by my apartment I’ve been meaning to try.”

“You mean, like, a date?”

This time, Clinton’s answer was more emphatic. “Yes.”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
